Walden City
by king6475
Summary: An original story, written in the style of the previous Grand Theft Auto games. Features many diverse characters, all with their own storylines.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

The ashes swept over the balcony, dancing and spinning their way toward the streets below. There was no soft nightly breeze to save them, no autumn wind to lift them up and carry them off. They were doomed to flutter lifelessly down, where they would touch ground and meet an unknown fate that befell most ashes and similar forms of debris; one which nobody had ever really cared enough about to look into. The trees that many of the ashes were now sailing into still possessed their usual fall shades, but this time there was no usual fall wind to complement them. Walden City felt eerily still, as if it were a grand watercolor cityscape out of an art magazine. Shop windows and storefronts were lit up as usual, cars were still passing by, and the usual beggar was still sifting through the day's revenues of quarters and candy bar wrappers, but the whole city just felt lifeless.

Jim Milton tapped his cigarette against the guardrail once more before tossing it over the edge. He peered over the balcony and watched as the discarded cigarette butt plummet into nothingness, as was his custom whenever he finished one of them. Satisfied, he turned and headed back inside, switching on the television and flopping himself onto the bed. The black-and-white only got fifteen channels, but Jim wasn't really much of a TV guy anyway. The only shows he really watched weren't even on tonight, so Jim flipped to one of the news channels and took a soda from the mini fridge situated at the foot of his bed. The upcoming election was still the center of most of the news coverage, although Jim hadn't really expected anything different.

"Whatever."

He muttered to himself and took a sip of his drink. 9:30, he noticed, as he glanced at the alarm clock. Time for work soon.

* * *

Jill Scott wiped the tear streaks from her face and applied the last few touches of eye-shadow. She'd already applied her makeup twice, but tears often have a habit of streaking eye makeup. Besides, she'd told herself, people like it when the stripper's crying. And too much makeup would look bad anyway. Nobody wants a classy stripper.

At least, not where Jill worked. Down in Lincoln Lane, or "Tittytown," as the regulars called it, there were two types of strip clubs: the gentlemen's clubs, and the shitholes. Jill worked in a shithole called Riff-Raff, and most of its patrons were only there to see their money's worth. They didn't care about the well-being of the dancers or the rules that were supposed to be enforced. Riff-Raff was particularly good at attracting the sleazebags, more so than any of the other so-called shitholes. Many of the girls there had been raped or killed in the past, but the sad thing was, most of the dancers nowadays were too strung-out to give half a damn. Jill Scott never would have thought herself to be working there (as the current Employee of the Month, no less), but such is life, she had told herself. No one ever really wants an occupation as a stripper, but it was different with Jill.

She'd grown up in a wealthy family with her sister Kenna and attended one of those prestigious Ivy League colleges, but after her parents were killed when she was 19 and her sister 22, Jill's life completely fell apart. She'd turned to drugs, gotten herself expelled from college, and given birth to a baby boy, Connor, all in the same year. Of course, the father had skipped town the second Jill returned from the store with a pregnancy test in hand, and for the past two years, Jill had been raising Connor by herself and struggling to cough up money for dinner and diapers each week. Too ashamed to admit to herself what she had become, Jill had never once asked Kenna for money or assistance. After all, the two of them had never even considered that they would end up the way they did. With a name like Kenna, one would think that she would have become the stripper, and Jill would have been the responsible, respected businesswoman. Such is life.

"Come on, Connor." Jill said, as she switched off the television. "Time to go watch Mommy dance."

* * *

The tacky neon letters that spelled out "Mike's" and "Open 24 Hrs" were a welcome eyesore to the outskirts of Walden City. Located just north of the city, the diner and surrounding backwoods were a far cry from the urban jungle that was The City of Flashing Lights. It was your typical 50s-style mom-and-pop eatery, but according to the handwritten sign out front, Mike's Diner was also the home of "The Best Turkey Burgers in Town!" Normally, most people would have found this an impressive claim, but considering the fact that Mike's was literally the only restaurant in rural Slate County, never mind the only place within 100 miles that even served turkey burgers, it wasn't much of a feat.

Still, the hitman loved them, and he would always order a Gobble Gobble Deluxe and a strawberry milkshake whenever he was in the neighborhood. The guy moved around a lot, but his work always had a habit of returning him to Walden. As a professional contract killer, he had adapted the mindset that it was an overall good idea to keep people away from him, and, of course, keep himself away from people. He'd take up temporary residences for each job, in order to seclude himself as best as possible and to receive as minimal human contact as possible. The man wasn't exactly a hermit, but he felt that what he did was necessary for his line of work. As he trudged in through the front door of Mike's Diner and took his usual seat in the booth near the broken jukebox, he couldn't help but shake the feeling that someone was watching him. He didn't get this feeling often, but he could recognize it from a mile away. He was only glad that his targets never possessed the same type of instinct.

"What'll ya' have, hon?" the pretty blonde waitress asked, as she strode over to the table in her work-issue rollerskates.

"I'll have a Gobble Gobble Deluxe and a strawberry shake, please," the hitman replied. "And hold the pickles."

* * *

Harry Stilson wasn't the type of guy you'd want to run into in a dark alley. His slicked-back hair, his pinstripe suit, and his pseudo-professional demeanor seemed to prove otherwise, but anyone could tell by looking at him that his reputable appearance was all for show. He looked like the type who could run a renowned law firm with one hand tied behind his back, but he was probably the only one who actually believed that. In actuality, Harry was a con artist and a swindler who liked nothing more than taking unsuspecting saps for everything they were worth. However, he wasn't exactly a deadbeat, either. Harry was also the Industry's main "financial advisor," setting up most of their deals and keeping track of their protection rackets. Today he was on his way to oversee the gang's deal with one of the most notorious drug lords on the East Coast. Harry wasn't worried about a thing. His horoscope had foretold a great change in his life was soon to occur, and as the ever-faithful optimist that he was, Harry knew it could only be a positive one. However, he didn't expect the day to end without any bloodshed.

* * *

For one thing, there was the Rockstars, from uptown. Sure, they mostly specialized in drugs and prostitution and things like that, but that was no reason for the Industry to let its guard down. And when it came to violence and brute-force tactics, the Rockstars were second-to-none. Tales of power and success were often told about the Industry, but when gang members and criminals wanted to scare each other, they'd tell stories about the Rockstars. The Rockstars seemed to be the more fashionable and higher-up members of society, what with their nightclubs and public standing and all, but when the kid gloves were off, the gang was nothing more than a bunch of murderers, rapists, and drug pushers.

Take their boss, who was only known to his enemies as The Vocalist. It was a terrible name, obviously, especially for such a high-profile gang leader, but no one dared to argue with the Vocalist about anything, let alone his choice of a nickname. Despite his moniker, the man was a firm believer in the old proverb, "actions speak louder than words." "Mutilate first, ask questions later" seemed to be the Vocalist's M.O., as recently demonstrated with his dealing with the spy from the Mongrels. Hell, it had been over a month since the guy was killed, and the shark tank at the Walden Zoo was _still_ "down for maintenance."

Then there was Layla, one of the Rockstars' chief lieutenants and the owner of the popular nightclub _Grace_. She was the gang's "Black Widow" of sorts, using her feminine wiles to keep the gang's enemies at bay and to keep the police off of them. Of course, this usually required that Layla be on the police instead, sometimes even three of them at once.

Finally, there was the other lieutenant, Bruce, who was the gang's muscle. The Vocalist, although good at dealing with most of his enemies, never bit off more than he could chew. That was Bruce's area of expertise. He could take on the Red Army and not even break a sweat. Layla could take multiple guys at once, but Bruce was the one who could take multiple guys at once, snap their limbs in two, and feed the remains to his dog.

* * *

"Get the crates loaded," Thomas Holden ordered. "We've got a strict deadline to meet."

The two men next to the Dodge Explorer nodded. They turned and jogged off to the warehouse, where The Industry had been keeping their latest shipment. Tom shook his head as he watched them go. He didn't think it was the best idea to trust the new guys with this job, but Stan had declared otherwise. Some shit about plausible deniability, he had said. His reasoning was that, if the new guys had been caught, it would be a lot easier to pass off the Industry's uninvolvement than it would have been had the usual guys been running the gig. It had sounded like a good idea to Tom at the time, but when it came time to put the plan into action, any good feeling he had had about his boss' decision quickly disappeared. Sure, it would be easy to pin the blame on the new guys for the arms deal, but it was a hell of a lot harder to actually trust them with it.

There were simply too many ways for this to go wrong. The Industry was the most influential crime syndicate in town, but it certainly wasn't the only one around. Both the Rockstars and the Mongrels had made their opinions of the arms-dealing gang organization very clear in the past, but with the Rockstars now in a truce (albeit an uneasy one) with the Industry, Stan felt that now was the best time to act. Besides, both men knew that it was simply too good of an opportunity to pass up. Getting into the good graces of Diego Montoya, the biggest coke baron on the East Coast, could only be the beginning of a beautiful relationship. It was true that word of The Industry's agreement with Montoya had already made its way to and from most underground sources, but Stan had been counting on this since day one.

However, this wasn't to say that they would be making the deal with their pants down. Quite the contrary, in fact. The Industry had pulled out all the stops for this deal, with Stan and Tom calling in favors from just about anyone they had ever known. 24-hour surveillance had been ordered on the small neighborhood of Granville, where the deal was set to take place. A neutral, white-bread suburb with no gang affiliation whatsoever had been decided as the perfect spot. Anyone else would have thought an arms deal in the middle of town (in broad daylight, no less) to be the workings of a mental patient, but Stan knew otherwise. He and Stinson had this thing planned down to a 'T'.

As Stan and Tom piled into the old four-door, a voice rang out. The trucks were loaded, and the deal was ready to go.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

Jill's shift was over. Unfortunately, her next one started in about six hours. Like every other dancer in the joint who worked a double shift (which was about four of them), Jill preferred the daytime shifts to the nighttime ones. During the day, the typical customer was the white-collar ad exec from one of the local firms - the Joe Schmo who came down to the strip club every so often during his lunch break, who was courteous and polite to the dancers, and who kept his wedding ring in his back pocket everytime he entered the club. They weren't really the "touchy-feely crowd," but more of the "urges to see topless women who still had their breasts high and above their belly-buttons" kind of crowd. The guys just wanted a break from their mediocre, unexciting lives (or wives), and Jill could relate. No harm, no foul.

Then there was the night crowd. There weren't any ways to break these guys up into groups like one could with the daytime customers. No, they were all the same. The night crowd. The night crowd who'd spit and swear at the dancers, and toss their drinks at them when they'd had too much. During the day, some of the dancers would bring a few select patrons (most of them quite hesitant) into one of the back rooms for a little R&R. During the night, it was a little different. The patrons would bring a few select dancers (all of them very hesitant, and very defiant) into one of the back rooms for a little R&R. Luckily for her, Jill had never been a direct target of the night customers' "patronage," but she doubted it would stay that way forever. Oddly enough, she would come to work every night with the intention of quitting, but every time she approached Carl with her intentions, those two choice words she'd had for him would just slip off her tongue and back into the recesses of her mind, where they rightly belonged. Stripping was her job, after all. And she liked it.

The hitman lay in wait outside the apartment building. According to the intel he'd received, his target should have left for work thirty minutes ago. _No matter_, the hitman had told himself. _Not everyone can be as on time as me_. He took a sip of his milkshake and drummed his fingertips on the dashboard apprehensively. Contract killers were supposed to have a near-infinite amount of patience, and the hitman was no exception. It's just that things didn't feel right this time around. The mark really _was_ supposed to be a punctual kind of guy, and it struck the hitman as odd that he would choose this day to be late. The bus the guy usually took had left quite awhile ago, and apparently the guy had some kind of important presentation to give at work today.

Muttering to himself, the hitman exited his car and headed for the front doors of the apartment complex. He consulted the file in his jacket once more, noting that the mark's room was on the 5th floor, suite 6. The hitman considered calling his employer about the situation, but quickly decided against it, as the mark's ex-wife didn't really seem like the understanding, patient sort when he'd met her. Besides, it was bad form for a hitman to call his or her employer and explain that he or she had lost the target after only a half hour of waiting. The hitman had promised not to call until the job was said and done, and that's what he planned to do.

As the elevator made its way up, the hitman checked his coat pockets once more. Car accidents were his specialty, but if the occasion called for it, he could do a mean accidental overdose too. A few bottles of sleeping medication (and possibly some anti-depressants) strewn about was all it really took, but skilled hitmen usually planted some sleep aid books and cassette tapes at the scene as well.

The floor indicator dinged and the hitman stepped out onto the 5th floor. The mark's room was only a few doors down, although the hitman wasn't expecting it to be wide open when he got there. Readying his 9mm, the hitman crept in. He'd be damned if someone had beat him to the punch. Then again, he was the only one with such an assignment (or so was his general assumption), so all the more he hoped the guy was still alive. No one was in the living room, and there were no signs of a struggle. The hitman moved into the kitchen. Same thing. After checking the closet and the bathroom, only one room remained. Nothing could prepare the hitman for what awaited him when he entered the bedroom.

The trucks pulled into the parking lot, with Stan and Tom's car close behind. Montoya's men were already there, and as Stan stepped out of the car, he could instantly make out a few of the plainclothes guards that were patrolling the streets. _Amateurs_, he thought to himself. He'd expected more from Montoya. As Montoya's representative emerged from beneath the nearby oak tree, Stan motioned to the truck drivers. The two of them each moved to the back of their trucks and opened the bed, revealing three crates each.

"Ah, you must be Mr. Black," the representative spoke, as he and two of his bodyguards approached the trucks.  
"And you must be Mr. Garcia," Stan replied dryly.

"Yes. Mr. Montoya regrets that he cannot be here today, but he has entrusted me to act as the buyer on his behalf. I hope you understand."  
"Of course, of course. Now let's get down to business, shall we?" He motioned to Tom, who strode over to the two trucks.

"As your boss has requested, here are six crates, all filled to the brim with state-of-the-art assault rifles and various other... party favors. Please feel free to inspect the merchandise to your satisfaction. We won't be offended"  
"Yes," Garcia replied as he went to inspect the crates. "While Mr. Montoya has great faith in all of his business partners, I do not. One can never be too careful in our line of work, am I right?"

Stan nodded.  
"Mm-hmm, mm-hmm. Yes, everything seems to be in order."

Upon hearing those words, Garcia's two bodyguards lifted up the suitcases they had been holding and opened them.  
"Inside each of these cases is one and a half million dollars, for a total of three million, as promised. It's been a pleasure, gentlemen."

Just then, a shot rang out. The bodyguard to Garcia's left uttered a small gasp and slumped to the ground, blood trickling from the hole in his head. Garcia swept up the case that had fallen and pulled out his sidearm, firing wildly in the direction of the shot. The sniper rifle sounded off again, and this time it was the second bodyguard that went down. The armed guards that had been standing nearby rushed to their boss' aid, while the plainclothes ones ran for their cars. Stan and Tom dove for cover as Garcia and his men stood huddled in the center of the parking lot. Two more shots rang out, both from different directions as Garcia whipped out his cell phone.

"Now! Bring the birds in now!"

Then he turned to Stan, who had since regained his composure.

"You son of a bitch!" he roared, having abandoned the pretense of a civilized member of society. "Montoya was right not to trust you! How an asshole like you could hav-"

A bullet caught him in the throat, and he went down. Without thinking, Stan dove for the suitcase as it fell from Garcia's hand. Tossing it to Tom, he pulled out his own gun and began firing at Garcia's men. Tom and the others rushed to his side, but everyone froze when they heard the all-too-familiar whir of helicopter blades in the distance. Garcia's reinforcements had arrived.

Gunfire echoed in the distance as Harry made a break for his car. Any reasonable man would have turned tail and run during a time like this, but not Harry. His employers needed him, and he wasn't one to abandon them. As he reached for the pistol in the glove compartment, Harry used his free hand to make a call on his cell phone.

"Johnny, get the fuck down here! Shit's hit the fan and our boys are dropping like flies. Where the fuck are you guys, anyway?"

"We're a few minutes out. Just tell everyone to hold tight until we get there!"

"I don't think we can wait that long!" Harry cried frantically, tossing the phone away.

Taking cover behind his car, Harry fired off a few shots into the fray. He wasn't the best marksman around, not by a long shot, but any of Garcia's men he can hit would be one less problem for Stan and the boys. He had to be quick, though. The helicopter was coming in fast, and once it arrived, the boys would be toast. _All or nothing_, he told himself. This was his time to shine.

Tom huddled behind a crate, shooting round after round at the encroaching gang members. Most of them were too occupied with the opposition to notice him and Tom used this to his advantage, dropping as many of the distracted gunmen as he could. When his Beretta clicked empty he made a break for it, scooping up the fallen assault rifle that he'd been eyeing since he gunned down its owner. A renewed strength surged throughout his body, and Tom took careful aim at the gunship that hovered above. Like the ants they were firing upon, the men inside the helicopter were too distracted to notice anything else but what lay directly before them. The bullets from Tom's gun striking the helicopter's tail rotor were more than enough to alert the gunmen to his presence however, and the helicopter turned to face him, just as a convoy of trucks rolled into the parking lot.

"There! That's Harry's car!" Jonathan Gerard ordered the driver. Their truck swerved and broke formation, making a beeline for Harry as the rest of the convoy swarmed onto the battlefield. Gerard swore to himself when the huddled form on the ground came into view, blood pooled around it, but there was nothing more he could do for his friend. Ordering his driver out to check for vitals, Gerard reached into the back of the truck and uncovered the anti-armor rifle that lay there. He reclined his seat to get a better view of his target, and with a devilish grin, fired two shots straight through the fuselage of the helicopter. As the pilots struggled to regain control of their dying bird, Gerard fired again, this time hitting the main rotor. The helicopter pitched violently, ejecting one of the gunmen, and slowed to a feeble hover. Gerard tossed the rifle back into the trunk and ran into the parking lot, 9mm drawn, as the helicopter made its descent.

The pilots stumbled out of the smoking hulk and collapsed on the ground, gasping and wheezing for air. The pilot barely had time to cough before the barrel of Stan's gun was pressed against his head.

"Beg, motherfucker."

The pilot turned to his left and watched as his co-pilot and two remaining gunmen were executed, and then looked back at Stan.

"Please don't kill me. I was just following orders. Just let me go and you'll never see me again."

A quick look of amusement flittered across Stan's face as he replied,"Of course we're not gonna kill you. Well, not yet anyway." Then his expression darkened as he pushed his face into the pilot's.

"But you'll sure as hell want me to."


End file.
